


Naming Conventions

by Lapsed_Scholar



Category: The X-Files
Genre: But you can't have everything, F/M, Fluff, Names, No Angst, Probably also no plot, Romance, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapsed_Scholar/pseuds/Lapsed_Scholar
Summary: Meditations and discourse on the meanings held by names





	Naming Conventions

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be set whenever you think it fits or whenever you would like it to fit, in canon or beyond.
> 
> It is dedicated to my own much-beloved spouse.

They’re standing in the hotel suite together, a little apart, looking anywhere but at each other, and he’s trying to work out the source of the fraught awkwardness that seems to have crept between them. It’s not like they haven’t done this before—been alone together (best friends for years), shared a hotel room (though never one quite this nice), made love to each other (frequently, thank you).

Maybe it’s just the _expectation_.

“I’m not changing my name,” she declares, suddenly. He looks up, a little bit startled because, honestly, that really isn’t even remotely in the area of what he’s been thinking about. She has a defiant set to her jaw, crosses her arms over her chest. The movement makes her wobble a little, tall heels sinking into the plush carpet.

“It, um, never even occurred to me that you would,” he replies honestly. It never really occurred to him to want her to, quite frankly. Is he supposed to want her to? But this is _Scully_. He gives her a small smile that he might intend to be reassuring. “I loved my mother a great deal, despite our...difficulties, but it’s safe to say that being Mrs. Mulder never brought her any joy.”

He had been aiming for something near self-deprecating humor, but she shakes her head seriously, biting at her lip. “No, that’s not what I mean, Mulder. Please don’t think that’s what I mean.” Her eyes plead with him to understand, and this is by far the most thought he has ever devoted to this particular topic, but there’s something about it that’s evidently important to her, so he pays attention. “It’s not that I don’t want to be connected to you publicly. I’m proud to be with you, not ashamed.” She reaches out toward his hand; the tips of their fingers play together.

She frowns in concentration, licks her lip. She’s clearly trying to work out the best way to convey whatever she needs him to understand, but he’s starting to get distracted by a solidifying mental image of running his hand up her arm and kissing that look off her face and making her forget, not only whatever it is that she’s so worried about, but also how to form coherent sentences.

Ah, there’s the more customary mood for their current scenario. He can rise to expectations, after all.

_Time for that later; pay attention._

“My name has grown to be an integral part of my identity. To me, it represents myself: encompasses all of who I am and who I was and who I will be. A tangible way to define the multitude of dimensions that make up my soul.”

“The ineffable effable, effanineffable, deep and inscrutable singular Name,” he offers. He takes perverse pleasure in quoting Eliot, undesirable free-thinker that he is.

She flashes a brief smile. “Something like that, yeah. And so...” She looks down at her shoes, shifts on her feet a little, burrows deeper into the carpet. “That’s why I don’t want to change it.” And he’s opening his mouth to tell her, again, that he certainly never expected her to, when she looks back up at him, pierces him with her steady gaze, and continues. “And I want it to be unmistakable, Mulder, that every particle that makes me who I am has freely chosen to love all of who you are. That our partnership and commitment is a dedicated, joint endeavor undertaken by both of our whole selves.”

He certainly wasn’t expecting _that_. It knocks him on his ass, and he turns fully toward her to look into her eyes, study her properly. He’s not often at a loss for words, but he simply doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he’s gaping at her.

He finally finds his voice. “Well, I could always change _my_ name, I suppose. We can be Mr. and Mrs. Scully.”

“That’s _Dr._ and Mr. Scully.”

They look at each other for a beat, then simultaneously burst out laughing. He’s still feeling deeply touched, reminded that he is profoundly in love, but their familiar, affectionate camaraderie is back, too. “My mistake, _Dr._ Scully.”

She reaches out to toy lightly with the end of his tie. Shifts her hand to get a more secure grip, gives it a more serious tug, and murmurs, “Come here, Mr. Mulder.”            

How the hell can he refuse an order like that?

~

“Fox.” She says the name thoughtfully, as though she is pondering it, trying it out.

“Mmmm?” He opens one eye to look at her, a little bit curious, mostly still drowsy. (And, well, it’s not like there is any question about who she’s talking to.)

“Well, if you’re going to change your name, I’m going to have to call you Fox.” She’s teasing him, mostly, but he can hear the question behind her words.

This requires sitting up, so he does, though he still feels distinctly rumpled. It probably should also require clothes, but he’s not sure where they are at the moment, and he doesn’t care to try to remember, so he settles for one out of two and the sheet over his lap.

“I know that I implied that I never let anyone call me Fox, the first time that you did it. And it is absolutely true that I don’t like my name.” He sighs. “When I was a kid, it stood out less; the school I went to, a _lot_ of us had weird names—especially the boys and especially the oldest sons. But it was unusual even at Oxford, and, let me tell you, having a name like mine really starts to lose its luster when you have to give it to hard-working, blue-collar cops in middle America. And then the serial killers discover it, and it’s just all downhill from there.

“The last name habit at the Bureau was easy for me to adopt—diminished the challenges my first name always posed me. Even beyond those challenges, though, I guess I don’t always like what a name like Fox implies—elite exclusivity has never really been my thing.” His voice quiets a little, colors with the kind of very old sadness that’s dulled to a lingering ache. “And it _is_ the last thing I ever heard my sister say.”

He sighs, recovers himself, and continues. “But it is my name, and, you’re right, my family called me by it, as did most of my oldest friends. Certainly all of my past romantic partners—too strange to explain to the flings, and the ones that lasted for...any significant amount of time weren’t too keen on encouraging my bizarre hang-ups. And I do understand that there’s an intimacy that goes along with first names—sometimes I feel like I need to call you Dana. If you really _want_ to call me Fox, it wouldn’t bother me.

“But I do... I _like_ that you call me Mulder, Scully. I asked you to, and you just...did. You never really asked me why, and you never told me that I was being absurd. No one ever did that before you. Just...took my preference on its face without judging it and honored it immediately. I mean, you corrected your mother when you were just out of a coma, for fuck’s sake. And she had been calling me Fox for months. It wasn’t really necessary—wasn’t a huge deal—but you did it anyway.

“So now, even after we are where we are, I guess I just... as I said, if you want to call me Fox, I do understand. It just...ah, Scully.” He shakes his head with a small smile, once again a bit lost for words. What he can’t bring himself to say is that he often feels as though she is the first and only person to accept and love him—really love him—like this. The name thing symbolizes that—hearing her call him Mulder reminds him of her easy acceptance, makes him feel warm and loved, whenever he stops to think about it.

When she does call him Fox (and she does on a very rare occasion, usually as a slip of the tongue that is most often prompted by a particularly skillful slip of his, but sometimes when she’s feeling particularly emotional), there’s a trusting, rare intimacy to it. She knows his vulnerabilities well, by now, but she would never use them to hurt him or control him. And she trusts him enough to let him see the vulnerable places she so resolutely hides from the rest of the world. Her use of his name in those places is symbolic of their mutual trust; it’s the difference between an intimate caress and a rough entitlement.

He feels all of this—intensely—but it makes him feel shatteringly fragile (and maybe a touch pathetic) to admit out loud. He wills her to understand with his eyes.

She smiles at him. Her eyes are warm and a little wet. “Come here, Mulder.” She pulls on him until he’s lying down again, head on her breast. Her fingers run through his hair. They lie like that for awhile, drowsy and warm, until he gains more interest in his surroundings, starts to nuzzle her, pulls his head up to look at her with a glint in his eye.

“You know, Scully, we _are_ on our honeymoon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whatever a person decides to do with their own name is personal and entirely up to them. I don't mean to imply that Scully's choice or reasons in this story are (or should be) universal.
> 
> I do cast aspersions upon anyone who thinks they have input on what someone else does with their own name.


End file.
